All good things must come to an end,
An end without a second-guessing head,
Without no pain, outside disgust, regret
And no ideal to look back to and respect;
All roads are doomed to finish at the line
As much as hills are bound to spiral in decline
Until the air o’er nightly bed let go the breath,
You were before your death yourself a death;
Yet, still those autumn leaves around your grave
Are leading dances dignified and brave,
Though only once I cast my glance therein,
Your lasting image lingers still within;
Wherever Lord, or fallen angels swarm
Has lured your heart, disturbed, torn part yet warm,
Your empty womb comes haunting me as home,
I wear your caul, my scorpionic mom;
This day has come, this life has gone, and I
Have let my memory relieved of pain behind;
I’m clapping hands to honor day of birth
On this October 30th, holy yours.
To Z
© Copyright: Томас Кромвель, 2024
Свидетельство о публикации №124103000284
Свидетельство о публикации №124103000284
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